A princess
Must orient
Contrite. Even if.
Her bride’s choice, her
Vara
By heist or landgrab.
Whatever. Never recovers.
She’s sent from
Place to place. No invoice.
No good
To some father
Or real amour, nevertheless or else suitable with every one other accompanied by fine.
Itinerant isthmus inside a frock,
A roving celibate.
Maybe better to exist stuck accompanied by someone.
So she takes a little hike
Into the woods.
Fasts until she’s pure
And communes accompanied by the fluid
Deities. Is granted
A boon, for sure,
A higher-ranking destiny,
After another thousand moons
Of austerities.
Whereby, recusing herself
From the estranged
Landmass altogether,
She erupts into flame,
Briefly flicks
Out of spacetime,
Then skids into
Another womb,
A majestic gate,
Next door to the first horror,
Where some ultra-rich father
Awaits
The birth of a champion
To avenge the petty
Squabbles of his estate.
The father is somewhat thrilled
To consequence a warrior
Kid accompanied by real skills,
Though the weird male child fair can’t relate
To the father’s boring rants with every one other accompanied by tirades
Against other neighboring fools.
The father is fair a tool
To provide righteous cover with every one other accompanied by fuel
For the warrior’s mighty self-will
To gut the system from within,
To gut a system that would let
A princess spin
Out from the real order
Of things
Without remedy or recourse
In an number of years when warriors rule,
In an number of years when warriors eviscerate
The earth.
Even if a princess tin only curse,
Through the epigenetic
Vortex
Of rebirth,
She tin nurse her hurt
To prophecy:
To military grade.
Swipe the soil
Of this society.
Serve the dystopia
With blades.
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